Proximity
by Nylex
Summary: Hermione and Severus hate each other. Really, they do. It's just hard to convince people of this while holding hands. [Sevione]
1. I: Contact

**_Proximity  
_**[I : Contact]

* * *

_"Sometimes, reaching out and taking someone's hand is the beginning of a journey.  
At other times, it is allowing another to take yours." –_The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration

* * *

It all happened quite by accident.

The Ministry liked to throw parties honoring Harry Potter, because sporadically they would remember that he saved the entire bloody world from certain destruction. So, according to the Minister's whim, they would drag along the Golden Trio to a brunch or a dinner or a masquerade ball, asking them to shake hands and dine with some of the Wizarding Elite. These got tiring after a while, but Harry felt obligated, Ron liked the food, and Hermione genuinely enjoyed attending these sorts of things, if only to meet foreign wizards to talk their ear off about the rights of magical creatures.

Naturally, once the Golden Trio was invited it would only be polite to invite all of their friends; namely the Weasleys, every professor at Hogwarts, several former students, and all of the remaining Order of the Phoenix members. Which included Severus Snape.

"He won't come," Ron said, taking another cocktail shrimp off of a silver platter. "Hasn't come out of hiding since the end of the War, right?"

"He might," Harry said as he awkwardly tugged at the neck of his rather too-small robes. "You never know. I'd like to shake his hand, at least one last time."

Ron snorted. "Shake his hand and then punch him, maybe."

"Shut it," Harry warned, "I owe him a lot, you know."

"Why, because he wanted to bang your mum?" Ron asked. Harry shot him a look. "Sorry, but seriously Harry, he was right old git when we were in school. He could've made your life a hell of a lot easier but he just _liked_ making us miserable."

"He kept us safe," Harry pointed out. "He gave up a lot and sacrificed himself over and over again, and for that I'm grateful."

"Still a git." Ron said.

"Still _sort_ of a git," Harry finally agreed.

"For once in your life, Mr. Weasley, you find yourself quite correct; I did relish the opportunity to make you miserable. Five points for Gryffindor," a deep voice said from behind them.

Both Harry and Ron jumped, wheeling around, schoolboy fear flashing on both of their faces. An old, deep-seated terror of detention flared into Harry's mind but he shoved it down, knowing that Snape was probably looking into his head right now.

He was still as tall and hook-nosed as ever, his shoulder-length hair still falling in a sharp widow's peak which served only to sharpen his strong features. It was as though he hadn't aged a day since the last Battle of Hogwarts, although he wore a knotted green-and-silver ascot at his throat, concealing the savage scars left behind by Nagini. His dress robes were black of course, giving him once more the appearance of an overgrown bat, and Harry felt another irrational surge of fear. He still loomed. He still had plotting, evil smirks, and a silky baritone voice that send terrified shivers down his back.

But this man, this hateful, pale, hook-nosed man with glittering black eyes and a permanent sneer, had saved his life too many times to count. He had given up his entire life, walking a knife's edge between sides, sowing doubt and gathering information. He had nearly died on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, and if hadn't been for Hermione…

Speaking of which…

"Professor _Snape_?"

Hermione sprang across the room, dropping the Headmaster of Durmstrang cold, and headed straight for Snape. Her bushy hair, which she had tried unsuccessfully to tame, was in a thick, frizzy plait which fell down between her bare shoulders; there was a ferocious expression on her face, and for a moment Harry was unsure she was going to smack Snape or hug him.

She stopped in front of the Professor. "I thought you weren't coming," she said after a moment.

"I nearly didn't," he said frostily, "although Minerva convinced me to make an appearance and patch things up with you three brats."

Her eyes narrowed. "Professor, in case you haven't noticed, we're all adults now," she said evenly. "We're hardly brats. And I'm not particularly inclined to 'patch things up with you' since I've yet to hear back from you, even though I've sent you dozens of owls over the past five years. Not to mention I've never heard an apology, or a thank-you, come from your lips."

Snape drew himself up to his full height and his cold aura grew exponentially icier. "And _why_ would I owe Mr. Potter or Mr. Weasley any shred of gratitude? They were inept students and even worse celebrities. I couldn't stand them when they were children and I cannot abide them as young adults, what makes you think anything has _changed_?"

"You don't owe Harry or Ron anything," Hermione said waspishly, "but in case you don't remember, I saved your _life_. _Twice_. Once on the floor of the Shrieking Shack and once again during the Battle of Hogwarts when that rubble nearly crushed your head. I think I'm owed maybe a '_shred_' of gratitude, and perhaps a bit of respect. I _was_ your brightest student and you _know_ it."

Snape's velvety voice had a snarl of impatience running through it. "Idiot girl. You were never my brightest student. And if you wish to drag gratitude out of me with a meat hook, so be it. _Thank you_, Hermione Granger, for saving my life and not allowing me to escape this wretched plane of existence where Harry Potter's face is plastered on every _rubbish bin_."

Harry sensed Hermione's oncoming anger and stuck out his hand to disperse it. "I don't care what happened in the past," he said, squaring his shoulders and looking Severus in the eye. "I'm grateful for what you've done. And I'm sorry, for spending so much time hating you when I was a kid. It was unnecessary."

The professor eyed Harry's hand distastefully. "It was quite necessary. I made your life a miserable hell and I regret none of it. Kindly remove yourself from my proximity, Mr. Potter." He adjusted his ascot and turned away.

Hermione stepped forward, into Snape's personal space, and grabbed his elbow. "How dare you," she said quietly, almost under her breath, "Its one thing to snub _me_. God knows you've been doing _that_ for years. But don't dismiss Harry, not after he respects you a bit."

Her hand was still on his elbow and it was odd, there seemed to be something rolling over his skin at her contact, like a prickle of static electricity. There was an odd expression on Hermione's face as well, as though he could feel it too—Snape frowned and jerked away from her.

"It was clearly a mistake to come here," Snape said, feeling a headache beginning to build at the base of his skull. "I wish to be left alone. And I was obviously in error to attend this function."

He turned on his heel and Apparated out of the ballroom.

* * *

Two hours later, both of them were in St. Mungo's.

"Don't _touch_ me!" she screamed.

The Healer jumped back as though he'd been burned. Hermione's skin was covered with feverish little bumps, and her eyes were wild. The sheets had twisted around her and onto the floor, her pillow thrown across the room, and there were tears streaming out of her blotchy eyes. Every inch of her skin felt as though someone were brushing hot coals along her muscles, leaving a line of fire in their wake. The whole world burned.

"I'm sorry," she whimpered, curling into a ball, "it just hurts _so much_ when you…_t-touch_ me."

Harry and Ron watched, sickened, as Healers threw open the door to Hermione's ward and streamed inside. It had been two hours, two hours of listening to her wail and thrash; it was as though they were back in the Malfoy Manor, listening to Bellatrix savage their friend with the Cruciatus curse.

"We've got to do something," Ron said hoarsely, his freckles standing out in sharp relief against his chalk-white face. "She…she sounds like she's _dying_."

"She's not dying," Harry said numbly. "She's not…Hermione's not_…_she _can't_."

The bravest, smartest, cleverest witch he had ever known was being tortured by her own illness. The Healers were baffled—it wasn't an infection, it wasn't a side effect from a potion. It had to be a curse, but it was unlike anything they'd ever seen. More importantly it had come on so _suddenly _andfiercely, causing Hermione to collapse on the floor. Cooling Draughts and Dreamless Sleep potions were being brought in by the liter, and no matter how many things they attempted, her fever wouldn't go down. _If only we could get her to _sleep_, _the healers kept saying.

"Harry!" a voice called from the hallway. Harry looked up to see Minerva McGonagall, her crimson robes wrinkled and her gray hair mussed. "Harry, you must come—bring Ronald as well, something dreadful has happened—"

"What is it?" Harry demanded, springing to his feet. What could _possibly_ be worse?

"It's Severus," Minerva whispered. "He's been checked back into the hospital, he's been struck by a curse—I found him in his study, frozen like an icicle—"

Harry's stomach twisted; he was being pulled in two different directions again. "I'll come," he muttered. Anything to get away from Hermione's ward, Hermione's familiar screams of terror and anguish.

"Hermione's in there," Ron said, sitting back down. "I'm not leaving her."

Another painful shriek came from behind the closed doors, and a Healer hurried inside, his wand drawn. Harry followed McGonagall down the hall, a leaden lump in his stomach.

* * *

"Don't _touch_ me!" Severus spat.

The Healer sprang away from the man. Snape was ice cold, his skin light blue, dark veins marbling his forearms. His Dark Mark was inky black against the frigid skin, and his thin lips were dark. For all intents and purposes he looked frostbitten, and he kept dozing off to sleep. Every time he did so one of the Healers would wake him up with a Pepper-Up potion, which would do little to restore him; now, however, keeping him awake was as simple as touching his bare skin.

"The pain…" he rasped, "is _worse_ when you touch me…"

He faded off again, head falling against the pillow. His heartbeat slowed dangerously beneath the Healer's finger.

McGonagall's mouth tightened and she said to Harry, "They think it's a latent curse. The sort that doesn't come into full effect until it's too late."

"They said the same thing about Hermione," Harry said, his brow furrowing. "They think…they said if she could just stay asleep long enough for her body to fight off the fever, she'd be all right."

The Gryffindor Head of House looked up at him, alarmed. "Do you think they could be hit by the same curse?"

"_When_, though? Hermione was fine…she's been fine for _ages_…it happened so quick, one moment we were getting ready to leave, and then the next moment she collapsed, she took Ron down with her…"

"We need to get them in the same room," McGonagall said firmly, her brogue thickening with impatience as she gathered her skirts. "Where is that Head Healer? Mogwitch! _Mogwitch you bastard_, where are you?"

Behind the doors, Severus let out a roar of pain and Harry heard something smash. They had to be linked. Both checked into St. Mungo's at the same time, both with the same sort of undefinable illness? There was too much to be a coincidence. But how could this have happened? Who could have hit them both with the same curse? Obviously at the Ministry brunch, but how could they have not seen anyone raise their wand?

Harry could hear McGonagall shouting in the hallways; it sounded as though arrangements were being made to move Hermione. What if the curse _worsened_ when they were in the same room? And why Hermione? Why, of all the people in the world, did it have to be _Hermione_? The only one who kept her head, the one who came through in the end, through everything—nothing could sneak up on her. She was indomitable.

The doors of the ward flew open and a levitating stretcher came through, bearing a thrashing Hermione. Ron, McGonagall, and a rather frightened looking wizard with blond hair came through as well, following closely. Harry jumped out of the way and let the Healers pass; they set Hermione down next to Severus's bedside, lowering their wands as they did so.

Hermione's whimpers trailed off.

Severus's eyes opened.

"I need," Hermione gulped, her eyes red-rimmed, "_I need_, please, just, just _please-!_"

His hand outstretched and their fingers locked.

It was like a thunderclap on a clear day; Hermione's unhealthy red blotches vanished almost completely, and healthy color flew into Severus's cheeks. She struggled off her stretcher and into his narrow bed, falling on top of him, burying her head against his neck; his arms wrapped around her waist and they seemed to _melt_ into one another, until it was almost impossible to tell where one began and the other ended. Their fingers intertwined and Severus seemed to nuzzle her shoulder, as though her presence was oxygen to a suffocating man. Hermione rested her cheek on the bare patch of skin on his chest, and her feet tucked around his, every inch of skin pressing against one another.

Hermione was fast asleep, her head tucked beneath his chin. Severus was wide awake and lucid, his bright black eyes glaring at McGonagall.

"What," he hissed venomously, "is the _meaning_ of this?"

* * *

_So, structured stories._

_I suck at them._

_Anyone who's followed my stories for a while knows I can't keep to a steady pace, the plot meanders, and I really have no idea what I'm doing. That's because I don't—when I write fanfiction I stick to one-shots, mostly, until story ideas which couldn't be hashed out in one chapter started biting me. This lead to many half-hearted stories, most of which ought to be rewritten even though they either haven't been completed or only just finished up. _

_This one, however, is an idea I worked on with my beta, **araeofsomething**. She's been amazing keeping me on track and helping me hash out story ideas, along with where the story should go; to be honest I have more hope for this story than anything I've written in a long time. And I don't 'hope' for things like fanfiction. _

_Anyway. I hope you enjoyed the beginning of Proximity. I enjoyed writing it and I hope people stick around for the continuance. _

_But I'm still myself. There will still be sex. yisssss. _**nylex**


	2. II: Bound

**Proximity  
**[II – Bound]

* * *

_"A fine glass vase goes from treasure to trash, the moment it is broken. Fortunately, something else happens to you and me. Pick up your pieces. Then, help me gather mine." _– The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration

* * *

"I can't!" Hermione gasped, lunging across the table and grabbing Snape's hands. Their fingers twisted together.

The two of them panted in unison, feeling their equilibrium slowly return. For over ten minutes they had been experimenting with their limits, trying to see how far away from one another they could get. Thirty seconds so far was their record, but after so many attempts their symptoms were getting worse and it was taking longer for their respective temperatures to settle. Hermione let her head fall onto the tabletop and she pressed her cheek against the cool wood.

"When is the Order coming?" she asked after a moment, her voice hoarse.

"This evening," Snape answered, sounding equally exhausted. His palms were starting to warm beneath her fingers, and that horrible feverish rash over her forearms was gradually disappearing. His long fingers tightened around her wrists, and she glanced up in spite of herself. She turned her head over and focused on the small, dark kitchen.

Snape's house was awful. All of the windows were tightly shuttered and the curtains were drawn; the doors were huge and heavily bolted, and there was very little natural lighting. Thick rugs covered the creaky wooden floors, and everything seemed tilted, cracked, ancient, or all three. However, the house was large and rather clean, with not a speck of dust to be seen. Of course that could have also been the dim lighting, Hermione mused, since the only thing illuminating the kitchen was an antique lantern. The house was old, spidery, and rather dour. It reminded her strongly of Snape himself.

Just holding hands was barely enough contact for her, but Snape seemed perfectly content. It was like treading water, just barely keeping your head above the surface and not drowning; she _needed_ more skin to touch, something more than hands, but she would feed her favorite book to a Hippogriff before she told Snape. She settled her mind into dissecting their predicament in order to ignore her discomfort.

"The Battle of Hogwarts," she said after a long silence. "It's the only time."

"It was five years ago, Miss Granger," Snape said, his voice dripping with condescension despite the fact that he was currently rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. "There must have been a more recent event."

"When _else_ were you and I around dangerous curses in the past five years? I've been running around interrogating Death Eaters for the past two years. I've hardly _touched_ my wand except for everyday spells. And God only knows what you've been doing." Hermione snapped.

"Your insinuation that I've been _in hiding_ is uncalled for," Snape growled. "I've been assisting the Minister in a number of ways, not to mention remotely aiding your investigation of the Malfoys. Where else do you think all of that evidence came from? In addition to all of that I've been researching various potions and—"

"That's all well and good," Hermione said brusquely, "but nobody's _heard_ from you, Professor. Not a single word. In five years."

Despite herself, there was some hurt mingled with her anger, and it bled through into her voice.

"I had my reasons," Snape said coldly.

"I think I deserve to know those reasons!" Hermione cried, picking up her head. "I saved your life, Professor! I thought…I thought just _one_ word. Something to know you were all right. Anything. I would have been content with a 'Stop sending me owls, Miss Granger', because at least _that_ would have meant that you knew it was _me_ sending you those letters."

"Do shut _up_, Miss Granger," he said wearily. "There is no need to send you letters at the present moment, considering we are sitting in my kitchen holding hands like a pair of infatuated lovers."

A blush rose to Hermione's cheeks and she wrinkled her nose. "Goddammit, Professor Snape, as if this wasn't already awkward enough," she said, tightening her fingers around his wrists.

He smirked. "What a flattering look of utter revulsion you have on your face, Miss Granger."

"It's hardly my fault," Hermione said flatly, "you're my former _professor_. And you happen to be twenty years older than me, and you're morally reprehensible. Not to mention you made my childhood a living _hell_, making me ashamed of my brains. God, you made me feel like such a freak."

"You are," Snape said offhandedly. "Those of exceptional intelligence are meant to be ostracized."

"_Thanks_," Hermione huffed, resting her head back against the table. "Roll up your sleeves," she said after a moment, her voice muffled.

"What?"

"Your _sleeves_," she said irritably, "roll them _up_."

He let go of her hands and she felt her temperature skyrocket. A sickly sweat sprang out on her lower back, and she wished she could reach over and tear Snape's sleeves straight off. Once they were rolled to the elbow she reached forward and grabbed his forearms, resting her skin flush against his own. His long fingers circled her skinny arm, and they stayed like that for a while, his Dark Mark pressing against her unblemished skin.

"We need to find out who did this," Hermione said eventually. "And soon. This is ridiculously impractical."

"We've hardly begun on the impracticalities of this situation, Miss Granger," Snape said bitterly. "We haven't discussed sleeping arrangements yet."

* * *

The candles in the center of the long table flickered, casting willowy shadows on the ceiling. Silence hung heavily over the whole gathering, all of them looking at the odd couple with a kind of stunned horror. Hermione and Snape sat next to one another, their hands linked, and Hermione was resting her head on his shoulder. This scene was odd enough, but both had faintly nauseated expressions on their faces, as though they still couldn't believe this was really their life.

"Well," Arthur Weasley said bracingly, "This seems to be a first."

"How fond you are of stating the obvious," Snape said bluntly.

"No, he means it," Harry answered tiredly. "We couldn't find any other cases like this. St. Mungo's says it's the weirdest sort of soul binding they've seen, they're calling it a Proximity Curse for the time being."

"Soul binding?" Hermione asked. "This isn't a _soul bond_. We're not telepathically linked, we don't share a consciousness, and we're not madly in love. Soul bonds are the result of deliberate magical enchantment between two people, and it's not something that can happen by accident. It takes time and effort, along with a full moon and a lot of ingredients we don't have. Not to mention it can't happen without both people's consent."

"Ten points for Gryffindor," Snape said sarcastically.

Hermione threw him a dirty look.

"Yeah, well, they think all those other symptoms could come with time," Ron said, sounding sick. "If we don't find a counter-curse soon it could be permanent, as well. That's what the Healers think."

"So that settles it," Hermione said briskly. "We'll do our research and find a counter-curse. It shouldn't be too hard, I've got a fairly extensive library back home."

There was a pause, and then Arthur said tentatively, "Hermione, you can't expect to get much research done while holding hands with Snape."

Her gaze flared hotly. "I'm going to _try_. I've got cases waiting for me back at the Ministry, Mr. Weasley, I'm prosecuting Macnair in a week and I _won't_ hand it off to an adjunct. I've worked too hard to get these cases, to get my _position!_ This curse is not going to interfere with my job, I won't allow it."

"Calm yourself, Miss Granger," Snape purred, "I've no doubt you could accomplish a great deal of research in your optimum state—considering that, and that alone, is how you graduated from Hogwarts—but what about _now_?"

He released her hand and shoved her away from him. Hermione fell backwards and the effect was immediate. An arctic chill slammed into his bones, bringing with it immediate lethargy, but it was worth it to prove his point; Hermione's fever shot up and she trembled, her stomach rolling uncomfortably with nausea. She reached for his hand again but it wasn't enough; without even thinking, Hermione threw a leg over his chair and straddled his lap, burying her face in his neck. Her wild curls tickled his chin, and despite his best intentions Snape found his hand tangling through her frizzy, unmanageable hair.

"Yeah," Harry said, sounding faintly ill, "yeah, we need to do something about this."

Hermione took a shaky breath, and realized Snape smelled (not unpleasantly so) of sandalwood. "We can research," she said, trying to steady her voice. Her head was still pounding and her hair was sticking to her neck; that awful sickly sweat was back. "I need to get my book collection, and then we can look up all sorts of soul bonds."

"Right, and Harry and I will look in the Hogwarts library," Ron said resolutely, sounding as though he spent every day of his life in the library. "Dad, can you and Mum look through the bins of books we have upstairs?"

"I'll look at Grimmauld Place too," Harry added. "There's loads of old curse books there, I'm sure we can find something."

"Yeah," Ron said encouragingly, "we'll find a counter-curse in no time."

"I hope so," Hermione said, her voice muffled.

* * *

Snape's bed was enormous.

She might have guessed that his bedroom was neat as a pin. It was sparsely decorated with only a big, looming black wardrobe and a four-poster bed, both of which dominated the room. There was a small writing desk jammed in the corner between the wardrobe and the wall, full of quills and scrolls of parchment. A window was open, letting a bit of a breeze into the stuffy room, and the windowsill was covered inclaw marks. She felt a pang with the realization that every owl she sent Snape had probably sat at that very window.

Her letters had ranged from introspective and apologetic to impatient and furious. She had begged him to respond, asking how he was doing and giving him daily anecdotes on her life; things like Crookshanks and his lady friend having a litter of kittens, her tomatoes finally producing something edible, and how her job at the Ministry kept her on her toes. Hermione had asked for friendship, for a conversation, for forgiveness, and finally just a response; he had given her none of them.

Hermione pushed these thoughts away and remarked to Snape, trying to sound offhand, "We need to change into our nightclothes."

"If only we had _magical abilities_," Snape said dryly.

She flushed and pulled her wand from her sleeve, tapping her skirts. In a moment she was changed into her favorite pink flannel pyjamas, which was a rather regrettable move; Snape took one look at her choice in nightclothes and curled his lip.

"They're comfortable," she pointed out, feeling childish.

Dismissively, he pulled off his ascot with one hand and tossed it onto the bed. Hermione's eyes widened.

After five years, the damage left behind by Nagini had barely faded. The memory of that night was a brutal one, and she remembered very little of the actual attack—just blood, blood everywhere, and flashing silver fangs; vaguely she remembered violet light pouring out from her wand as she desperately tried to stop the bleeding, listening to Snape's violent gurgling as he struggled to breathe. Now, five years later, what remained were three short, choppy scars surrounding his throat, clearly the outline of deep fangs. They hadn't yet begun to fade silver, and were still a dark pink, looking fresh and painful.

God. She would never forget the desperate look in his eyes as Harry stumbled backwards, holding onto Snape's last memories. Hermione had screamed something, something like '_Don't you fucking die on me Severus Snape'_, or something to that effect, and she remembered thinking _why was she the only person doing anything_? Ron had frozen, Harry was stunned, and she was the only one trying to save their Professor. It always came down to her, she was _always_ the one who reacted. The one who tried to fix things.

She thought she had saved him.

"Proud of your handiwork, Miss Granger?" Snape growled, tying the sash of his robe.

"I thought…" Hermione tried to swallow. "I thought…I was _saving_ you."

"And did it ever occur to you," Snape hissed, "that perhaps I did not _wish_ to be saved?"

He pulled away from her, taking back his personal space, and the heat which flooded Hermione's face wasn't directly related to the curse. She just kept staring at the three savage bites which covered Snape's throat, the ragged scars twisting together to form some kind of macabre artwork.

Her fever was rising and she stumbled into the bed, the smell of sandalwood making the inside of her nose crinkle. Severus's hand found her elbow and the two of them tried to make do with that minimum of contact, staying as far away from one another as possible. Her head was pounding and she was still uncomfortably hot, but she didn't dare kick back the covers.

She had _saved _him.

He must have known she was crying, but he didn't make a move to comfort her. She sniffed as quietly as possible and rolled onto her back, tilting her chin up to dry her eyes discreetly.

Neither of them could fall asleep. They lay there for what seemed like hours, barely touching; Snape felt as though his bed was a block of ice, while Hermione saw strange, feverish things behind her closed eyelids. Her eyes burned and blurred with tears but she kept her weakness to herself. He couldn't see her cry in the dark.

Finally, in the middle of the night, Hermione gave up and rolled into his arms. They lay there, stiff and uncomfortable, Hermione's tears drying on her cheeks. He was ice cold.

But she was too tired and too hurt to be uncomfortable for long. Hermione let her head fall into the crook of Severus's elbow, and fell asleep.

_Did it ever occur to you that perhaps I did not wish to be saved?_

Hermione dreamed of purple light and flashing silver fangs.

* * *

_god this chapter was hard to write. anyway! Hope you guys liked, I'm touched by all of the kind reviews. ^^ Thanks, you lot!_ **-nylex**


	3. III: Discovery

**Proximity  
**[III Discovery]

* * *

_"Was it you or I who stumbled first? It does not matter. The one of us who finds the strength to get up first, must help the other."_ – The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration

* * *

They got by, mostly, with just holding hands.

For Hermione it was awful. There was a constant feeling of _just enough_, the bare minimum—just enough contact. Just enough touch. During the night she was seized with a wild, frantic fantasy of whipping off the covers, ripping open Severus's dressing gown and curling up on his bare chest. But it would have to be enough, just maintaining the steady, uncomfortable heat and chill. There couldn't be anything more. She would bite her lips and recite Arithmancy rules inside her head, over and over. After a while, the urge would fade.

Hermione would be damned before she let a curse rule her emotions. But unfortunately, there were some tasks that required two hands.

"We can't just _magic_ a breakfast," Hermione snapped the next morning, grouchy and irritable without her morning tea. "It's not magically possible. And we can't do anything one-handed."

She didn't dare look up at him. It was hard enough looking up at the harsh, scowling lines of Snape's face, but whenever he was working out a problem those intense black eyes were particularly probing. Instead she looked down at their entwined fingers, which looked so odd together—Hermione had never been the sort of person to hold hands or do couple-y things with Ron. Her own hands looked so small, the nails so dainty and well-trimmed. Snape had working hands, the sort of hands that were frequently battered and used; she remembered those fingers moving in a blur over cutting boards, scooping up ingredients and adding them slowly into a cauldron. A few of those agile fingers were crooked, and she wondered if they had been broken at one point in time.

"_I'll_ prepare breakfast," Snape said irritably, breaking her train of thought. "Put your arms on my shoulders."

She blinked.

"Arms _up_, Miss Granger."

Automatically Hermione moved her hands to his shoulders, leaving Severus's hands free. It was much better than just holding hands, and by standing behind him she didn't have to look at his face and feel intimidated all over again. Not to mention she was out of the way.

He was _tall_. Much too tall to comfortably hold onto, and she had to follow him around the kitchen somewhat awkwardly as he prepared tea. But she felt normal for the first time in twenty four hours, no fevers, no nausea, and no awful sticky sweat— her arms were a little tired, though. He was wearing his usual black robes, buttoned up to the neck, and the material was smooth beneath her fingers.

"How many books do you have here?" Hermione asked, her cheek pressed against his shoulder blades.

Snape dropped two teabags into two separate mugs. "Not many," he said dryly, "considering my main occupation these days is _reading_."

"You could have been doing something else, you know," Hermione said softly, looking at the floor. "Teaching…or making potions. Or something."

"Recreation," Snape retorted, "in my own time, and my own schedule. In addition to aiding the Ministry I am also writing a book about the science of the Dark Arts. Make no mistake about it, Miss Granger, I have a very busy life."

Hermione opened her mouth to say something, but she remembered Snape's biting reply last night. He didn't want to be saved, and she shouldn't press.

"A busy life you didn't want to have." The words tumbled out of her mouth, unbidden.

"Exactly. Move yourself, Miss Granger, this tea is hot."

She skirted out of the way, and focused on the back of his head instead. Currently, she was draped around her old Potion's professor, who was terrifying in his own right, and Hermione realized she had never seen him up close before. His hair was ridiculously thick, the kind of hair that would give hairdressers trouble; no wonder it was cut so hideously, shrouding his severe features in gloom. What a blunt widow's peak he had—there had to be something to make him seem less awful. Did he cut it himself? And he seemed to smell more strongly of sandalwood here, did he use the scent in his shampoo?

"Miss Granger." Snape bit out, half snarling.

Hermione realized she was tangling her fingers through the long, inky black hair. She blushed furiously, muttered something apologetic, and pulled her hands away, resting them once more on his shoulders. The sandalwood clung to her palms.

Stiffly, Severus resumed making breakfast, clattering pots and pans rather loudly. She rested her head once more on his back. "So, if you have some books here…" she cleared her throat, trying to sound offhand, "We can research some this afternoon. And then fetch my books from my flat. I'm sure Harry and Ron will help us load them."

Snape slid two fried eggs onto a plate and set it on the counter. "I have quite an archive. Don't open the silver cabinet, you don't know the wards. You are allowed to read anything else, however."

"Thank you for your permission."

"You're quite welcome. Your eggs are finished."

She looked at the two fried eggs and blinked. "How did you know how I like my eggs?" Over hard, with the yolks broken—people never seemed to get them right. Either they assumed she didn't really mean it, and left them runny, or they got scrambled. She liked the yolks cooked but separate from the whites, thank you very much, and it was odd how Severus knew this.

"When you were camping with Potter," Snape said after a moment. "It's how you always prepared them. You once shouted at the Weasley boy because he got them wrong."

Hermione swallowed. That camping trip had nearly broken her, being alone, abandoned by Ron, struggling desperately to hold it all together. They had been so young, too young to be saving the world—time and time again she had cursed Dumbledore, sending them off on a ridiculous mission with nothing but a book of children's fairy tales, hoping they had enough talent to keep evil from seeping into their core.

"How did you know?" Hermione asked, her brow furrowing.

He paused, looking at the eggs in the pan. "Dumbledore's portrait was quite emphatic about checking up on you every so often."

She flushed. Dumbledore hadn't left them all alone in the wilderness, after all. Well, he might as well have—Snape hadn't really made his presence known. Hermione let her head fall back down.

"That trip was hell," she said flatly. "Especially for Ron."

"Mr. Weasley was a coward on that trip," Snape said brusquely, scraping his own eggs onto a plate.

Hermione bristled. "Don't call him a coward."

He eyed her. "Not offending your _boyfriend_ is very low on my list of priorities, Miss Granger."

"He's not my boyfriend," she said crossly. "We dated for a bit, after the war, but it got…too weird. We're friends, first and foremost."

"You might wish to remind him of that," Snape replied, "he seemed quite sickened by our predicament last night."

"Only because he _cares,_ like friends do for one another," Hermione said, almost breezily. "It's not like that anymore. He knows we're not a couple."

Snape said nothing, and she let her head fall back down. It was really almost nice, leaning against someone like this. Her arms were tired, though, so she let them slip down a little, and linked her arms around his narrow waist. He froze.

"My arms are tired," she offered as explanation in a brisk tone. "Have you made toast yet?"

Mechanically, Snape put two pieces of toast in the toaster, and then took a sip of his tea. Hermione scooted to the side, keeping an arm around his waist, in order to grab her mug and take a sip. The tea was boiling hot and lightly sweetened, just the way she liked it. In fact, this looked like a delicious breakfast. There would be a long day of research ahead of them, and no doubt this ridiculous curse would be broken before nightfall. Research on a new topic always gave her a good feeling, and she smiled sunnily up at Snape, before remembering who she was currently attached to.

"Wipe that smile off your face, Miss Granger," Snape growled, "and eat your breakfast."

* * *

The sun was setting and Snape's sitting room was a mess.

There were books strewn everywhere. Some tomes were open, some shut; some marked, others flat on their backs; and still more stacked in a neat little fortress around Snape's armchair. Hermione had dragged over the footstool and was currently sitting on that with furrowed brows, a massive hide-bound book propped on her lap. The last bit of sunlight that came through the dusty windows made it hard to read, as the fire had burned very low in the hearth. Hermione's small, bare foot was resting on top of Severus's slippered one, and the fever was building back up in her system. Little bumps were springing out over her lower back, and her temper was running out.

"Professor, I can't _read_ half of these!" Hermione finally said, half-throwing a book across the room."They're all in symbols or worse, and I never took a class in Mermish or Gobbledygook. I don't think _you_ speak them either, what's the point of having all of these books if you can't read them?"

"Throw another one of my books and I shall glue it to your hand with a Permanent Sticking Charm," Snape said tersely, rubbing his temples, "and if you cannot read the books then simply look at the _pictures."_

Hermione turned the book upside down and then right side up again, squinting at the illustrations. The benefit of Dark Magic books was that most of them were beautifully illustrated, breathtaking artwork depicting gruesome tortures and spells. They were really quite horrible.

"This one…I think talks about soul bonds between Animagi?" Hermione puzzled out, looking at the pictures. "The woman's a swan, I think…I don't think I could ever be a swan."

"I could see you as a rat, personally," Snape said, turning a page.

Hermione flung the enormous book down with a loud _bang,_ "Look, I realize this isn't an ideal situation," she bit out, "but does _everything_ that comes out of your mouth have to be an insult? I'm not a little girl anymore, Professor Snape, I'm not a twelve year old who you can intimidate! I'm not going to run off to the loo and _cry_, because of some mean thing you said. Itwouldn't be out of hand to treat me with a bit of respect now that we're both adults."

Snape took his attention away from his book, obsidian eyes narrowed and his mouth tight. "Let me _finish_, stupid girl. Rats are highly intelligent, with excellent memories, and they're natural students. They care for those around them, they're hardy and naturally cunning. Not to mention they all possess some magical qualities, which makes them unique among other animals. Why do you think wizards have them as _pets_?"

There was a long moment of silence, and then Snape returned to his book.

"Did you just…" Hermione began, "did you just _compliment_ me by calling me a rat?"

He turned another page. "Don't let it go to your head, Miss Granger."

* * *

It was late. Hermione had somehow migrated to the floor, leaning against Snape's legs, and was studying his feet. They were so _pale_, with high arches and smooth heels. She got the feeling he didn't run around barefoot often, but even here she could see evidence of the war. Little scars along his toes, in an almost systematic fashion—had someone cut them? She cringed at the thought.

The fire was warm and the afghan around her lap was making her sleepy. Relaxed, her brain was finally working, following paths of random thought related to their predicament.

It had to be at the Battle of Hogwarts. When, though? The curses had been flying around like mad, and it could have been at any time. It must have been activated by touch, when she grabbed Snape's elbow at the banquet. That had been the only time she had touched him.

Perhaps _she_ had created the soul bond? Accidentally, while trying to save his life? No, she remembered the spells she used, and the combination of them wouldn't cause any adverse effects. Antidote spells and blood-clotting spells were used in conjunction with each other all the time, and they didn't create soul bonds.

Why would someone deliberately put the two of them together? They were so _different_. She couldn't think of two people more poorly matched, except for maybe Harry and Severus. God, what if _they_ had been stuck together? Both of them might have ended up dead. No, she had to keep her temper. Keep control. He had slighted her for years, squandered the extra shot at life she had enabled him to have, and called her horrible names—but she wouldn't let it get to her.

"_Damn_."

Hermione jerked awake.

"What is it?" she asked sleepily.

"'_Clausus Animus_, a Soul Curse," Severus read aloud. "'Namely used to render one's soul vulnerable, allowing the usage of many other spells and increased effectiveness of the Dementor's Kiss. However, in a fragmented form, when striking two individuals, this curse has been known to bind two souls together, manifesting in physical touch or sight. To see countercurse, please continue to Book Two.'"

"Well?" Hermione demanded. "Where's book two?"

Severus snapped the book shut. "At Malfoy Manor."

Hermione turned to gape at him. "_What_?"

"Lucius Malfoy has it, these books were originally his. I procured them from his Manor before the place was raided, I must have missed one."

"You mean you stole it."

"Does it matter? The Ministry was seizing anything related to the Dark Arts. These are first edition, I wasn't about to let these waste away in a dusty cellar at the Ministry. Knowledge is meant to be absorbed."

Hermione stood up. "I don't care about _knowledge_ at the moment, I care about breaking this bloody curse! Tomorrow, we go to Malfoy Manor and search his place for the book. We need it."

Severus curled his lip. "Lucius Malfoy is currently being tried by the Ministry and is under lockdown. _You_ are the chief prosecutor who will present his case before the Wizengamot. Do you realize what a coup you have handed him? He could ask for the moon in exchange for this book. At the very least he would press his advantage and get his charges dropped. That would be my plan, and Lucius Malfoy is very nearly my equal in intelligence."

"Well, then, he can't know we need it," Hermione snapped. "We'll search it inconspicuously."

"_How_ do you plan to do this while we are currently attached at the hip?" Severus demanded.

"We'll…we'll go undercover. As Death Eater sympathizers, we'll wear disguises and pretend to be madly in love. _Yes_! That's what we'll do. We need a plan, though, how big is Malfoy Manor?" She stood up and began to pace the room, running her hands through her hair.

"Miss Granger."

"I'll need a blueprint, and we'll need to disable some of his wards, and we'll need an excuse for leaving the room. I need to do some reconnaissance. Perhaps it would be easier to sneak in at night. No, no, it would only heighten his advantage, we need to have the upper hand—"

"Miss _Granger_."

"What?" Hermione asked, whirling around.

"Sit. Down."

She did so, and realized belatedly that her temperature was painfully high. His hand was a block of ice, and she grabbed it with both hands. Slowly, their temperatures settled and Snape rested his hand on the crown of her head.

"Tomorrow," he said, sounding exhausted. "We'll discuss a plan _tomorrow_."

* * *

_As always, major mad props to my fantastic beta, **araeofsunshine**, who I basically owe my firstborn child after all the work I've put her through. Also this fanfiction is crazy-fun to write. _ _I'm blown away by all of the reviews! You guys! This fandom is so welcoming it's kind of insane. :)_ **-nylex**


	4. IV: Mrs Malfoy

**Proximity  
**[IV Mrs. Malfoy]

* * *

_"In the kingdom of glass everything is transparent, and there is no place to hide a dark heart."_ – The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration

* * *

When Hermione planned and strategized, she liked to sit quietly and make lists. Usually the lists were very long and organized, with bullet points and subsections. However, when Snape planned, he liked to pace. Seeing as Severus was taller and had a more threatening glower, Hermione ended up scratching a hastily written note or two on the back of a napkin while Snape paced in his study like a caged dog. Mostly, she followed him around with her hands on his shoulders, or holding hands. He had a habit of grabbing her wrist and dragging her along, as though he had already expended his hand-holding quota for this lifetime.

"There's got to be another way," Hermione said, running a hand through her hair. "There's got to be another copy of the book. There _has_ to be."

"Of course there is," Snape said dryly, "provided we have nineteen thousand Galleons, or perhaps a virgin to sell, we can procure any one of the three copies of this particular book currently left on the planet. Books about the Dark Arts, specifically about soul bonds, are hard to come by, Miss Granger."

"So what do we do? You said it last night, I can't just march into Malfoy Manor and demand the book. Wouldn't the Ministry have a copy of it?" she asked, following him awkwardly around the room, a disgruntled expression on her face.

He snorted. "Potentially, they _would_ have had a copy, if they didn't do such a shoddy job of searching the Manor. Merlin knows what they left behind. I'm sure Malfoy has more than a few enchanted stockpiles of Dark magical artifacts, and we will have to search them _all_ before we can find the book."

"What about Hogwarts? Or Dumbledore?" Hermione persisted.

"Do you think these books are just _mass produced_, like a Muggle bodice-ripper, Miss Granger? Books about Dark Magic have to be specifically cursed in the correct way. In some cases, the ink has to be mixed with either a potion or human blood, depending on the potency. _These_ particular books are first edition, which means they include spells which are not in later copies. I imagine _Clausus Animus_ is one of them. We _need_ Lucius's copy."

"Oh, that's just lovely, then," Hermione said, irritated, "'Hello, Mr. Malfoy, do you think we could have a look around your house? You see, we're currently stuck to each other with a soul bond, and if we don't get a counter curse I might not have time to prosecute you or your friend, Macnair! So do be a poppet and point us towards your library.' That'll go over _exceptionally_ well, Professor, what a _brilliant_ plan. No wonder you did so well as a spy, I can't imagine yourhumongous brain thinking up anything more astounding!"

"Shut _up_, Miss Granger, your ability to talk for hours and not say a single thing of consequence never ceases to astonish me. I'm _thinking_." Snape sneered.

They continued to pace. Hermione's arms were aching, and without a word she let them fall down to his waist, jamming her hands into the front pockets of his waistcoat. He stopped. "What are you doing."

"You're dragging me about the study like a little child and my arms got tired," she snapped. "Well? Have you thought of a plan?"

Severus raised an eyebrow. "Why yes. Yes, I have."

"Really?" Hermione asked, picking up her head.

"Yes."

"What's the plan?"

"I'm going to _ask_ him for the book," Severus said brusquely. "Put on a coat, Miss Granger, the weather is nippy."

* * *

"I hate this plan," Hermione hissed, bouncing a little on the balls of her feet, her breath pluming in arctic clouds. "Of all the plans you've come up with, Professor, this one has to be your worst."

"Don't say another word," he growled in her ear, "not a one."

The wrought-iron gates before them creaked open slowly. High, cropped dark hedges loomed over them, and Hermione saw a white peacock strutting slowly down the gravel pathway. The manor itself seemed to be built of spiky saltboxes, the type of house a small boy would draw when thinking of a castle. Stained glass in the upper windows reflected the last few rays of the setting sun—there was nothing out here for miles. There Malfoy Manor stood; stark and black, against a backdrop of an utter wasteland. Here and there, amid Lucius's pompous peacocks, Hermione could see a touch or two of Narcissa; there was a small flower garden blooming near the house, and an artfully decorated fountain spouting water from a stone serpent's fangs.

They hurried up the walkway, boots crunching in the gravel, and Hermione felt a deep, unsettling chill. She felt distinctly _unwanted_, like she was breaking some kind of tradition—without thinking, she touched her wand which was tucked into her sleeve. The chill deepened.

"That'll be the blood wards," Severus said tightly. "Stay close."

"I don't have much of a choice," Hermione said under her breath, but without much heat. The last time she had been here—

(_"Crucio! Crucio! Talk, you little Mudblood _bitch_! CRUCIO!")_

—It hadn't been pleasant.

The front doors opened without being touched. Hermione stared straight at the polished silver knocker, which was an elaborately carved snake, miniscule fangs jutting out. Severus stood stiffly at the door.

"Well?" Hermione asked, looking at the open doorway in front of them.

"No invitation," Severus muttered, "we'll set off alarms."

"The door opened," she pointed out.

"That does not constitute an invitation."

They waited for a moment, and Hermione heard heels clicking on polished floors. A familiar figure came around the corner and she fought to keep her expression smooth.

It was Astoria Greengrass, with her delicate, rosy features and short, closely cropped black hair. Her glassy blue eyes looked at them seriously, her posture impeccable and her clothing neat as a pin. Astoria had been two years behind Hermione in school, but the Gryffindor distinctly remembered the tiny, elfish, pale little Pureblood. She reminded Hermione strongly of a breathing, blinking china doll that could fly to pieces at any second.

"Oh," Astoria murmured, "Professor Snape. And…Miss Granger. How nice to see the two of you. Do come in."

"Are you living at the Manor, now?" Snape asked somewhat flatly.

Astoria offered a tiny, fragile smile and held up her left hand. A sparkling silver ring was on her finger. "I'm Mrs. Malfoy now, so I have as much as a right to invite you in as anyone, Professor. Come in, both of you. We were just about to have tea."

They stepped cautiously over the threshold, and once Snape's boots were firmly planted on the mat, he exhaled slowly. "Tea would be lovely, Mrs. Malfoy," he said. "And allow me to offer my congratulations on your marriage, I wish you both the greatest happiness."

"Thank you, and please, call me Astoria. I'm so sorry you couldn't be at the wedding," Astoria said, leading them through the wide, echoic hallways. "It was a private ceremony. Just close friends and family."

"Close friends," Severus repeated mechanically. "Of course."

The petite Malfoy woman led them into the parlor, which was full of emerald velvet. Deep, sweeping curtains hemmed the windows, an elaborate silver tea set spread over the table. Minute sandwiches and cookies were arranged on small plates, and a steaming teacup wafted the sweet aroma of rosehips towards them. It appeared as though Astoria was having lunch alone—there was one teacup, one napkin, and one saucer of cream set out on the table.

Astoria watched Severus and Hermione share a couch, their hands still intertwined. Her wide, clear eyes looked at their laps and then back up to their faces. "I didn't know you two were so close," she said after a moment.

"We aren't," Hermione spoke up. "That's why we're here, actually."

Severus shot her a filthy look. "Miss Granger, please mind your _tongue_ in this house."

His voice was so cold, and the harshness cracked against her like a whip. Mind her tongue. Mudbloods didn't have a right to speak when sitting in the parlor of a Malfoy. Hermione looked at her distorted expression in the teapot and admired her calm expression. Mind her tongue. What a quaint, almost antiquated sentiment. Not _just_ because she was a woman, but because of her blood. Mind her tongue.

"As I was saying, I wish to express my delight in regards to your partnership with Draco," Severus began. "When did all of this happen?"

"Last June," Astoria said, looking wistfully out the door. "To be frank, I haven't…I haven't seen him much." She took a quick sip of her tea, setting it perfectly down on the saucer without rattling. Hermione examined her—perfect hair, stunning makeup, beautiful clothes, and an empty room. Taking tea all by herself, without even a book or a cat for company. She might have been the mistress of the manor by marriage, but she hadn't yet earned the title.

"Where is Lucius?" Hermione asked, her voice much too loud in the emptiness of the room. Astoria flinched.

"Mister Malfoy is out at the moment," Astoria said, almost fearfully.

"Well, he shouldn't be," Hermione said pleasantly, "he's under house arrest until his arraignment."

Severus squeezed Hermione's hand so tightly she felt the bones rubbing together. The pain was brief and sent a message, which she ignored. Mind her tongue. It kept running through a circuit on her head, twisting through—

_("Stay still, filthy thing, let me finish up—now, now you've got a nice pretty scar on your arm telling everyone what you are. Are you ready to tell the truth now? Mm? Have you been in my vault? Still nothing? No matter to me, little Mudblood pig, I'll carve it again on your _forehead_ if you don't tell me the truth! CRUCIO!")_

—Hermione blinked.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"I said, he must be upstairs. This house is so…so large, it's hard to keep track of everyone." Astoria smiled tremulously. "Is there anything I might help you with, though? Something I may get you?"

"Do you often have tea by yourself, Mrs. Malfoy?" Hermione asked, her throat feeling dry

Severus shot her a warning look. Hermione squeezed his hand tightly, warningly, and she could feel his glance. Her jaw clenched.

"Miss Granger," Severus began lowly.

"I'm just curious, because when we first arrived, you said _we_ were about to have tea. So. Do you often have tea alone?" Hermione continued, overriding Severus.

There were tears in Astoria's eyes, and her lower lip was trembling rapidly. "I…I…"

"Send for Lucius," Hermione said frostily.

She looked at Astoria and their eyes locked. Hermione tilted her chin and _pierced_ her with her gaze—she could see all of Astoria's life laid out in little staccato fragments: a marriage she didn't want with an inattentive, reclusive husband. They slept in different rooms, except for the nights when Draco was lonely and the scars on his wrists hurt too badly for him to cope with, so they would fuck, and Astoria would cry while Draco slept with his arm around her waist. Maybe in a few months a baby, a son or a daughter she would love, but Narcissa and Lucius would take it away, spoil their grandchild, fill it's innocent mind with poison, until Astoria was alone in a house full of strangers. And Astoria wasn't strong. She was _weak_. She would take a cowardly way out, just like her husband, because the Malfoy's might be pure but they couldn't _fight_.

"No," Astoria said, soft and clear. "No, I won't."

_Bang!_

The sofa tipped over and Hermione saw Astoria on her feet, wand in her hand, and that was one of the last things she saw—the floor opened up, yawning and black, and Hermione was falling down, down, tumbling into blackness.

She hit a pile of dusty cushions that smelled of mothballs, and she choked. Severus was nowhere to be found. Overhead, a grate let in a dozen rectangles of light, and she could see Astoria looking into the pit with tears trickling down her face.

The sound of heels clicking on polished floors.

Narcissa put a hand on Astoria's shoulder, and murmured something in her ear.

"She _looked_ at me," Astoria said raggedly, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Like I was _filth_."

Hermione could feel her temperature rising; to the left, she heard a groan.

"Severus!" she screamed, banging on the wall.

Silence.

* * *

_So I've discovered Astoria is fascinating. I may write a one-shot or something about her; she sort of evolved her way into this chapter without my intention. I like her quite a lot though. She's a small, still pond, with a lot of depth for such a tiny package. _

_As always, I owe my beta **araeofsomething** a pot of gold and a pound of chocolates. -_**nylex**

**edit:** _OMFG freudian slip._


	5. V: Seven Promises

**Proximity  
**[V Seven Promises]

* * *

_"We are all glorified motion sensors. Some things only become visible to us when they undergo change." _—The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration

* * *

The world was burning up.

Hermione slumped against the narrow walls of her prison. To her left she could hear muffled groans and thumps; when she first heard Severus, she had been shot with a surprisingly strong bolt of clear relief. She couldn't do this alone. Her mind was running in frantic circles, on an endless loop—find Severus. _Find_ him, because she needed to be next to him, bare skin on bare skin, the smell of sandalwood and potions, to feel thick black hair.

"Don't use spells," a raspy voice floated through the air. "…barriers…will reflect them back…"

He sounded as though he were fighting to stay awake. Hermione's prickling rash was thickening over her arms and face, she felt like her skin was blistering from the heat, it was too much. Too much. The frantic circles in her mind increased until her thoughts were a blur and she saw feverish, ghoulish things dancing behind her eyes, and she opened her mouth to _scream_—

But she stopped.

_Think. Breathe._

Hermione scratched at her cheeks, wanting to rip her skin off. There were tears spilling down her cheeks. Her puffy eyes were swollen as she bit her hand tightly, trying not to howl with fevered pain. All she could see was snatches of Severus—hands, eyes, hair, skin, feet, nape, anything to attach herself to and never let go. She was _dying_. This was dying. She'd felt it before, during the Battle of Hogwarts**_. _**This was facing _death_.

_THINK_.

She let her head fall back against the wall.

"One," she sobbed out. "Two. Th-three, four. Five,"

Counting. Numbers would never fail.

_("Crucio! TELL ME THE TRUTH! Crucio, Mudblood!")_

"Six, seven, eight…"

_("Proud of your handiwork, Miss Granger?" )_

"Nine, ten, eleven, twelve…"

_("That way everyone will KNOW what you are, a Mudblood _bitch_! Fenrir! Get over here. You can have her now. Leave a little bit for the Master.")_

"Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…"

_("Did it ever occur to you that perhaps I did not wish to be saved?")_

Counting. Don't stop. Just numbers.

* * *

She kept counting. Perhaps not aloud, she couldn't tell—the world was warped and twisted, but she heard boots clicking on polished marble and there was a floating sensation. Was she dead? No, because she was still counting, and the numbers couldn't fail her. Had she screamed? Hermione twitched—she could imagine Lucius's smirk when she shrieked in pain, that self-satisfied look on his face. No, she hadn't screamed, she could see the teeth marks covering her hands and wrists.

Suddenly, powerfully, she was _awake_.

Severus was nearby. Some of her fever cleared and the fugue settling into her mind vanished almost completely—she lunged forward blindly and grabbed something, anything of him. It was his shirt sleeve and she felt his wrist, the ice-cold, dead feeling near his pulse. Their fingers twisted together and his grip was so strong it made her knuckles go white.

She made a move to come nearer, to find that blessed skin and curl up next to his chest, inhaling sandalwood, except he shoved her roughly away. Hermione mewled, somewhat pathetically, and she heard Severus's impatient, sluggish growl. He was suffering too, so why was he keeping them apart? Why couldn't this _end_?

"Severus, my old friend," a familiar voice said silkily, "What an odd predicament you find yourself in."

"…Hardly the first…_odd_ situation we have been in together," Severus rasped, pulling himself upright against the wall. There was nothing to grab except fine wallpaper, but after a moment he was sitting with his back against the wall, Hermione still flat on her belly next to him. She was shuddering and twitching, her fingers tapping a regular rhythm against the floorboards. He had heard her counting—it had kept him awake. Their fingers twisted together, their knuckles white, but that was all he needed—just enough to stave off the frigid chill settling in his bones.

Being closer to her was making it…not _better_, exactly, but at least more manageable. He could focus a little more now.

"No, I suppose you're right," Lucius said, "and, come to think of it, this is hardly even the first time I've caught you in my entrapments. After all of your years of…_cunning_…with the Dark Lord, one would think your trespassing skills would improve."

"Trespassing?" Severus coughed, trying to be discreet but failing miserably. "I merely stopped by with an acquaintance in tow to have a bit of tea with the new Mrs. Malfoy. The owl you sent carrying the wedding invitation must have gotten lost."

"Yes, it must have," Lucius said dispassionately. He examined the twitching Hermione. "What a curious acquaintance you bring to my estate. It is not enough to merely stop by my manor unannounced, with no prior notice, but to bring the witch prosecuting my case before the Wizengamot? Bold, Severus, very bold. Where was this brash side of you when you dealt with the Dark Lord? It was all sinuous promises and shady lies, nothing as overt and clumsy as this wanton attack of my home."

He tapped Hermione's leg with the tip of his cane, and she lifted her head just slightly. A pair of chocolate brown eyes glared dizzily, murderously, in Lucius's general direction.

"_We_ attacked _your_ home?" Snape queried, raising an eyebrow. "I was quite polite in all of my dealings, waited for an invitation into the manor and treated the new Malfoy Mistress with respect. And in return we found ourselves Stunned and shot back into your wretched little cages."

"I heard you from upstairs. Your _acquaintance_ was quite rude."

"And rudeness warrants ensnarement, these days?" Severus said dryly.

"For you, my old friend, _yes_," Lucius snapped. "Do I need to plainly state _why_ you are unwelcome here?"

Severus narrowed his eyes. "Do I need to plainly state why _you_ made a very costly mistake?"

The Master of the Malfoy estate glared at the Potion's master, but remained silent.

"Ah, yes, I see you working it out now. An Unbreakable Vow, Lucius…did Narcissa ever tell you?"

Hermione picked her head up off the floor again, listening. She knew that tone in Snape's voice, that silky, questioning tone that asked students _Do you really think you are intelligent enough to _not_ blow up cauldrons in my classroom?_ She'd heard it often enough to know that the tone usually prefaced a several blistering insults or a long monologue on _why_ his students were the stupidest in the entire school and were unfit for any occupation other than troll back scrubbers.

"She did," Lucius said, his voice brittle.

"How long after the War? Six months? A year? She must have waited a long time to tell you because otherwise I wouldn't be sitting in your parlor with the rust from your cages still on my trousers, I'd be a blasted cinder on your doormat. So it's still news to you, you're still trying to figure out _what_ to make of it."

Lucius snorted. "And what of it?" he sneered. "You formed an Unbreakable Vow with my wife—what is your _point_?"

Black eyes met pale blue. Lucius looked away first.

"You know why, Lucius."

"I rescind the offer my wife made of eternal hospitality," Lucius snapped. "It was made without my command or knowledge, and therefore does not extend to either myself or my household. There."

"Not as simple as you might think, Lucius," Severus said softly, dangerously, "Seven promises…are not as easy to break."

Lucius's eyes widened. "_You dare speak of that—_"

"I dare," he sneered, "I _dare_, Lucius, for your entire family owes me their _lives_. Regardless of our status or experiences for the Dark Lord I should not be thrown in your entrapments like a common mongrel. I should see the wedding of my own _godson_. I dare, Lucius, because the fate of your family is inextricably intertwined with my own, regardless of your personal feelings. Seven promises, over forty years…the Unbreakable Vows I made with the Malfoy bloodline cannot be undone, regardless of our ages when we made them. They remain forever _imprinted_."

There was a long, heavy silence.

"Get out," Lucius said, his voice raspy. "I shall not curse you once you turn your back. And I shall not set my dogs on you once you step outside my door. That is the extent of my _hospitality_."

Severus opened his mouth to speak, but Hermione cut him off.

"The _book_," Hermione said from the floor, speaking up for the first time.

Both men turned to her, raising their eyebrows in nearly identical expressions of recollection; for the most part, they had forgotten she was there.

"Ah, yes, our reason for coming here," Severus said, standing with some difficulty. "_Arcust's Analytically Alarming Allures, _Volume II, first edition. You have it in your living room beneath the table, and I would be most appreciative if you fetched it for us."

"So _that_ is your reason," Lucius snarled, "not to wax poetic about 'seven promises' and family ties, nor to even complain about the lack of an invitation to my son's nuptials. But to take a book, which I currently do not own, and use it for your own purposes. How very _like you_, Severus."

"We need it," Hermione said hoarsely.

"Clearly. You are both in a very poor state. But the fact remains, I do not have the book."

"Yes, you _do_," Snape growled, aggravated, "I know more about you than you would care to admit. I imagine Narcissa cleaned out all of your little hidey-holes the instant you knew a Ministry Official was coming up your front walk. So wherever the book may be hidden, under your pillow or down the front of your wife's blouse, that book is _in_ this Manor. And I will ask you once more, politely, to give it to us."

"And if I refuse?" Lucius asked.

Severus's eyes flashed. "Then I shall ask _im_politely."

Lucius smirked, suddenly looking very satisfied with himself. "How much is this book worth to you, then, Severus?"

"Enough to rescind your offer of hospitality upon myself," the Potion's master said flatly.

The Malfoy looked at him, blank-faced and stunned.

"Narcissa," he called suddenly, raising his voice. "Bring my collection down, would you?"

Hermione heard footsteps creaking down the stairs and she turned her head, pressing the opposite cheek against the cool marble. The stone was warm beneath her skin from the heat of her other cheek, but it hardly mattered. Anysecond now, she was going to explode and fling herself on Severus, because she couldn't take it anymore. Her skin was crackling with fire, she could _feel_ it. How was Snape not dying as well? How was he so collected? A thin, bedraggled thought wove through her mind. _He's used to it. He's used to staying calm under torture_.

There was a thud as the book hit the table. Narcissa backed away, looking downward. "There you are," Lucius said, almost sweetly. "All yours."

Severus reached for it apprehensively, and the trademark blue Malfoy eyes narrowed.

"Miss Granger," Severus said mildly, "I believe we've overstayed our welcome."

"Why yes, yes you have," Lucius said evenly.

Severus offered her a hand up, and Hermione latched onto it gratefully. She swayed and toppled a little against his chest, and in the blink of an eye she felt better. Clearer, stronger—Hermione felt her headache clearing and the rash began to fade. She pushed away from him, but kept holding onto his hand.

"Such a sweet couple the two of you make," Lucius murmured. "But then, your taste in women did always run towards the…_unpolished_."

"Thank you, Lucius, that is quite enough." Severus said stiffly.

"Have a pleasant evening, Severus," Lucius smiled, almost charmingly.

The book in one hand, Hermione in the other, Severus headed for the front door. Hermione saw Astoria on the landing, her eyes large, dark, and dull—as soon as Hermione caught her gaze, the new Mistress Malfoy fled up the stairs, gathering her skirts. She felt a not-unwelcome blooming of satisfaction in her chest.

As soon as the front door closed behind them, they both exhaled.

"We cannot Apparate on the grounds—" Severus began.

Hermione tensed when she heard the rattling of metal and the spray of gravel; very close, _alarmingly_ close, dogs began to howl. The Malfoy Hounds, of _course_ Lucius would set the dogs on them. She seized Severus's wrist and took off down the gravel driveway, hair flying behind her, and the gate rattled again, and the growls of dogs turned into full on howls and bays. She glanced behind and saw glowing red eyes and sharp white fangs, startlingly _huge_ black dogs tearing up the ground behind them, coming too fast, much too fast.

"Run!"

A dog snapped and caught the hem of Severus's cloak, tearing it off, and Hermione lashed out with her wand. "_Stupefy_!" she screamed, a jet of scarlet light hitting one of the closest dogs on the nose. They sprinted, hearts racing**_; _**flying towards the gates which signaled their freedom.

The dogs were alongside them now, and Hermione knew if she and Snape didn't speed up, they'd circle around them cutting off their escape through the gates.

A huge dog, with one eye scarred shut, leaped for Hermione's wand and just barely missed. The fangs latched onto her wrist and she cried out in pain, as she ripped her arm away from the beast. Snape snarled a curse and the dog fell without a sound.

The huge wrought-iron gates were closed and barred shut, and Hermione jabbed her wand at them. _"Relashio!_"

They flew open with a squeal of metal grinding against metal, and she heard the pained scream of a dog in agony. Glancing behind, she saw that Severus had silently been dealing with the dogs, flashing light sparking from his wand.

Hermione had never run so fast in all her life—there was something _visceral_ about dogs, and perhaps that had been her problem with Sirius, so long ago. Dogs had such power, such ferocity, and these dogs especially looked like bears. They flew towards the gates, and Hermione's breath was coming in ragged gasps, a stitch rapidly growing in her side.

Snape and Hermione slammed the gates shut behind them with a simultaneous sweep of their wands, and five dogs smashed against it, howling and gnashing their teeth, attempting to jump over the fifteen-foot high fence. Littered along the gravel driveway were unmoving bodies of other dogs, either dead or Stunned, Hermione couldn't tell. She didn't have time to pay attention, however, because Snape's hand was squeezing hers in a vice-like grip, and suddenly they were turning, suddenly they were hardly breathing.

And then suddenly, they were home.

* * *

_Update! Hope you guys like it. ^^ Thanks to **araeofsomething** for taking my rubbish and helping smooth out the action scenes. **-**_**nylex**

**edit: **_WHAT THE FUCK, AGAIN?! cheese and crackers what's with this whole name thing? Dx why can't I keep Malfoy and Snape straight. _

_speaking of I should really write a lucius x snape story. D_


	6. VI: Except Everything

**Proximity  
**[VI – Except Everything]

* * *

_"When you reach for the stars, you are reaching for the farthest thing out there. When you reach deep into yourself, it is the same thing, but in the opposite direction. If you reach in both directions, you will have spanned the universe."_ – The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration

* * *

The sitting room was totally empty and quiet. A clock ticked softly in the background, and outside, rain began to patter against the windowpanes. Despite the house's age, it was sturdily built with thick walls to keep out the weather_._ The oncoming rumble of thunder was only dimly heard. It was very dark in the quiet, crooked house, the shadows long and threatening.

There was a _crack!_ and Snape and Hermione fell against each other, hitting the armchair. Both of them were breathing raggedly, and Hermione was whimpering, clutching her wand against her bloody wrist. Fat drops of blood were spattering onto the dusty carpet and she set her teeth against the white-hot pain. Four jagged puncture wounds were torn into her wrist, clearly imprinted bite marks settling into dark, bruised patches against her hand. The stitchin her side was sharp and restricted her breathing; she took shallow gulps of air, trying to manage the ache.

She made an indiscernible noise. "_Agh_."

In an instant, Snape was on his feet, dragging her into the kitchen by her uninjured wrist. "_Ah!_ Ouch, not so—_ow_! Professor, stop, stop, what's the matter?"

His wand flashed through the air at the front door, and there was an abrupt sinking feeling in her stomach. "What was _that_?" she snapped.

"Blood ward," he said dismissively. "It should keep you safe as well, the spell should transfer through the link."

"He won't come after us," Hermione protested. "You saw him, he just wanted to—"

"He has every _right_ to come after us," Snape snarled. "_Why_ do you think the other Death Eaters have left me alone for all these years? Every Dark Lord sympathizer will be knocking on this door come sunrise, determined to kill the one they hold responsible for His death. Whether Lucius knew it or not, his family's offer of hospitality kept me safe for many years."

Her brow furrowed, but she couldn't think of what to say. In the kitchens there was a small, narrow door next to the stove; he tapped it with his wand and then flung the door open, pulling her downstairs into the basement. The staircase was a tight spiral and the stone steps were perhaps half an inch too short—Hermione kept tripping over herself as she followed her former professor downstairs.

The door creaked behind them eerily, and Hermione glanced behind her. It was almost totally dark except for a tiny white stripe of light from beneath the door.

Snape flicked his wand again and she heard the crackle of a fireplace. Almost simultaneously, the entire basement was bathed in a soft yellow light. Looking around, she could see two long, oaken tables covered with cauldrons, books, bottles, cutting boards, and knives. It was in a state of rather haphazard disorganization, quite unlike the militantly clean lab he kept at Hogwarts. Here, there was a feeling of almost…homeliness, a sort of safety, what with the old fireplace casting light on the dusty potion bottles. Potions brewed here, she seemed to sense, mattered more than the potions brewed at Hogwarts.

He swept up several different bottles and sat her down on the footstool nearest the fire. "Hold out your wrist," he said brusquely. Hermione pulled back the sleeve of her jumper, wincing as she did so—the yarn had stuck to the clotting blood. There was something almost gentle about the way he examined her injuries, feather-light touches skimming overthe puncture wounds and bruises. He turned her hand over, examining the puffy marks where other teeth had bitten down, but not hard enough to break the skin.

"Do you have any Essence of Dittany?" she asked after a moment. His scrutiny was making her uncomfortable, those unfathomable black eyes assessing damage like she was a cracked cauldron to be fixed, not a person who was injured. Despite this, his touch was personal, almost, and he seemed much too practiced in healing wounds. He let go of her hand to sort through the ingredients and she could feel the loss of contact like the flow of cold water. It was making her lightheaded and prickly once again.

"What do you think?" he muttered, and pulled her sleeve back farther. She shivered at his cold fingertips against her hot, swollen wrist, and flinched when something lukewarm dripped onto her open wound. Green smoke puffed upwards, carrying the scent of old dry herbs, and she felt her skin stretching. The puncture wounds scabbed over and the bruises turned yellow before they had even fully bloomed; tugging her sleeve back down, she gripped his hand again.

He looked rather displeased with the contact but she ignored it. "You," she said finally, "have some explaining to do. What _was_ all that?"

"That," he said coldly, "was an exuberant, idiotic little girl threatening one of the most powerful Wizarding families on the planet. I can only imagine that you got your job at the Ministry through connections and good looks. You are an abysmal interrogator and it is only through sheer luck that we escaped there alive." His hand slipped out of her grasp and encircled her wrist instead.

She bristled instantly, shaking him away from her arm. "_Excuse_ me, but I wasn't the one getting into an argument with Lucius Malfoy!" Hermione snapped, "Astoria hardly matters, she's a frightened little Pureblood who only married Draco for blood status and money. No, what I'm talking about is that whole little showmanship routine you went through with Lucius Malfoy. What was all of that? Offers of hospitality, and seven promises, what did any of that even mean?"

God, but it was difficult to argue with someone when you had to hold hands. Hermione's mouth tightened and pulled away, but he merely moved his hand higher, up to her elbow.

Severus raised an eyebrow. "Such a low opinion you have of Astoria," he murmured, "but then again, Gryffindors were always rash, judgmental types."

She opened her mouth to respond but her cut her off smoothly. "Tell me what you know about Unbreakable Vows. Surely you must have studied them at some point, and you seemed determined to impress me while you were at school. Now is your chance."

His hand was still on her elbow and it was driving her mad—that smug tone was infuriating. All those years she had tried so hard to get his attention, to get the praise from the _only_ teacher she never got it from. And now, _now_ he was asking her to perform a trick, like a trained Retriever? Not likely. She couldn't shake his hand off without suffering discomfort so she toed off her shoes, one after the other, and then jammed her cold toes beneath his felt his leg. She felt him jerk from the contact.

"I'm not looking for your _approval_ anymore, Professor," Hermione said, sounding sulky to her own ears, curled up next to him like a child, "I lack the proper blood purity for that, don't I? No, you can't just insult me and spin my head around like you did when I was a child. I asked you a direct question, I expect a direct answer. Now. What was that discussion with Lucius Malfoy all about?"

He was nearly impossible to read, what with that nearly expressionless mask. So _controlled_. Was he angry at her? Impressed? Exasperated? Impatient? She couldn't tell. Didn't she warrant any kind of reaction at all? Impatient was more likely, because he pulled away from her cold feet and abruptly pulled her close, arm around her waist. Hermione made some kind of muffled little noise and then relaxed by degrees, turning her head away from his shoulder so she could regain some kind of dignity. They weren't cuddling next to a fireplace. Not by any means.

"Impertinent," he breathed, but it sounded less like a reprimand and almost like a compliment. "In the past I have made seven Unbreakable Vows to members of the Malfoy family, and kept them all. Seven, as I'm sure you know, is the most powerful magical number. It's an unwritten law of magic that Unbreakable Vows come with an offer of hospitality attached to them. Even one, and you are supposed to be nothing but courteous to that person from that day forth. But _seven_…"

She frowned. "What was he supposed to do? Save your life, or something?"

He smirked. "Far from it. Any member of the Malfoy family was deeply indebted to me and they could let no harm befall me. If I died or became injured by either their actions or their hand, my own injuries would double in measure against their own house. Magic operates under a strict code of standards."

It was starting to make sense to her now and there was a leaden feeling growing in her stomach. "So…the Malfoys have been protecting you," she said slowly. "But…I don't understand, why? I mean, I realize Unbreakable Vows are a serious branch of magic, but—"

"I risked death seven times to prove my loyalty," Severus said flatly. "The imprints of those ties have dissipated now. Now, Lucius Malfoy and all of his brood are free to view me as an utter traitor, and dispose of me as they wish."

He gave up his safety in order to get rid of this soul curse. Hermione looked down at the book that now kept Severus in danger, and had a sudden, impulsive desire to fling it into the fireplace. But no—no, they needed this. Now, for this stupid book, all of the remaining Death Eaters would descend on him, and there would be no place on earth for him to hide. She looked up at him and twisted her fingers through his, feeling something entirely different coloring her emotions.

"You won't die," she said, fierce and heated. "I won't let it happen."

Severus laughed, coldly, mockingly. "How _sweet_," he said acidly.

"I saved you once," Hermione insisted. "And I'd do it again. I know you wanted to die, that there would be too many complications for you to live. I thought…I thought getting you cleared by the Wizengamot would end your problems but obviously it didn't. So I'm going to try and keep you safe. It's my job, to keep people safe."

And it was. There was no difference between saving Severus and saving any other Order of the Phoenix member. Absolutely nothing.

Nothing except black eyes and flashing purple light, and Lily's almond-shaped eyes which had tormented him for so long. Except snow-capped gravestones and thousands of Cruciatus curses, of agony and tears shed to protect the only person which reminded him of his greatest failure. No difference except nothing else seemed to matter, because without him none of it would have happened. Nothing except _everything_.

"Do you honestly think," Severus began, voice nearly a growl, "that you did anything I could not have done myself? I _chose_ to let the Dark Lord kill me. I _allowed_ his serpentine pet to rip my throat out. And I _assumed_ that nobody would be stupid enough to interfere with my plans. Open that damned book in your lap, Miss Granger, so we can be rid of this absurd curse which keeps us together, and then I shall go into hiding once more. You cheated me out of my death, surely you can allow me to take my life into my own hands."

She opened it the book with one hand and with the other squeezed his palm until her knuckles went white, pressing against his side. "Absolutely not," Hermione snapped. "I'll call the Order together, we'll do something to protect you—"

"Why do you insist on this?" he snarled. "Why must you _meddle_?"

She didn't answer.

How could she explain? She didn't even know herself. Why did she meddle? Why did it matter so much when it came to him? There was an overwhelming need to keep him safe. To make it up to him, somehow, because they all owed him so much. He didn't deserve being ostracized and hidden away, like he was the Golden Trio's shameful secret.

Silence reigned in the laboratory, broken only by the turning of pages and the crackling of the fire.

"'_Clausus Animus'_," Hermione read aloud, her voice cracking a little, "'Counter-curse and antidote.'"

"_And_ antidote?" Severus echoed, taking the book from her lap. He slid it onto his knee and read by the light of the fire. "'This particular curse can only be broken by a Dementor's'…well, that's clearly not going to happen…ah, the spliced form. '…in this formation, the two individuals must prepare a potion in the light of the full moon, and must be drunk in the presence of the individual who cast the curse.' _Damn_."

"What does that even mean?" Hermione asked, taking the book back and scanning the pages for herself. "So we have to make this potion, at night, underneath a full moon, and drink it in front of the person who cast this on us? But we don't _know_ who cast it, it could have been anyone!"

"Precisely," Severus murmured, rubbing his temples, "not to mention the full moon is a full three weeks away."

"Three _weeks_?" Hermione exclaimed, sitting bolt upright, pulling away from him, "No, _no_, the trial is next week! In four days! There has to be a different way, I can't be stuck to you while I'm trying a case! How—how are we even supposed to find who did this?"

Severus narrowed his eyes and then flicked his wand. "_Revelio_," he muttered.

She felt a hot, flushing feeling sweep her body and shuddered with the alien sensation. "What was that?" Hermione asked, somewhat uncomfortably as the sensation faded.

"A Revealing Charm. I need to think—give me an item."

"What? What do you mean, an item?" she asked, brow furrowing.

"Anything, it hardly matters. Give me that _lamp_, even." He gestured, annoyed, and she reached for the nearest item, which was the small bottle of Dittany. With two swift motions, he uncorked the bottle and tossed the liquid into the fire, making it hiss and billow green smoke; then he tapped the empty bottle with his wand. It briefly glowed electric blue before fading.

"There," he said with no small measure of satisfaction. "A Revealing Charm. It should activate when we come across the person whose wand is linked to this curse we're laboring under."

Hermione blinked. "How did you know how to do that?" she asked, curiously turning the bottle around in her hands.

"This is not the first time I've had to discover what person has placed an uncomfortable curse on my personage," Severus answered dryly. "Before this I assumed our situation was deliberate, and I had formed a list of suspects appropriately. Now, however, the possibility of this being an accident is on the table."

"Some accident," she mumbled.

"Indeed. Regardless, if this curse was intended for another and instead hit us, it could open up a wide range of people, friends and foes. We have three weeks to discover who this person is, along with finding all the ingredients on this list."

"Wrong," Hermione corrected, scanning the list, "we have four days to find out who did this, and then brew the potion. I don't know what we can do about the full moon, but we have four days to find all of these things, which include…unicorn hair, periwinkles, sea foam, along with about thirty other things I can't imagine are easy to get."

"They're not," Snape said wryly. "Thankfully you have me."

She shot him a glare. "Thankfully you have _me_," she told him, "because you have to remember the instant we step outside your door, we're going to be followed and attacked by Death Eaters at any moment."

"Well," Snape muttered after a moment, "we wouldn't want this to be too simple, now would we?"

* * *

She was asleep.

How did the blasted girl even _manage_ that? It must have been shock and adrenaline wearing off; she was still young. Such things still affected her deeply.

The Granger girl was on her stomach, with mass of curly hair hiding her face, one arm under the pillow and the other thrown out to the side. He had never pictured her asleep before (because Merlin knows he never would have imagined being _in bed_ with a student—he shuddered at the thought) but he didn't imagine her sleep patterns to be so…volatile. She tossed and turned more often than she stay still, and when she finally settled into deep sleep it was in some sprawling position that took up more than half the bed.

He tried to move away and her hand tightened on his own. She stirred and then turned her head, settling once more.

_You won't die. I won't let it._

That wasn't the first time he remembered her saying that.

_I'm not going to let you die! Don't you _fucking _die on me, Professor!_

How horribly his perfectly orchestrated plan had gone awry, due to the underestimation of one Hermione Granger. It had always been his plan to die during the War—there was no other way. Dumbledore would no longer be around the protect and defend him, not to mention the Potter brat and his cohorts would no doubt see his allegiance as opportunistic, and feel no shame in throwing him to Azkaban with the rest of the Death Eaters. Death was the only option, and there would be plenty of opportunities. The Dark Lord would discover his plan eventually.

Nagini had not been anticipated. He thought after all of his years serving the Dark Lord, he warranted at least the personal touch of being killed by the Dark Lord himself. Not his _pet_. Not to mention there would have been no opportunity for the Granger girl to discover her Gryffindor tendencies at last, and have her leap into action like that.

There had been Lily's beautiful green eyes swimming in his vision, filling him, and there had been whiteness. The pain was still there but he knew it would pass.

And then…

And then brown. Blue moonlight highlighting a frantic, tear-streaked face, and the harsh, stinging pain of venom being purged from the wound, that was what he remembered.

_Why_?

She stirred again and rolled over, burying her face against his arm. He froze.

This was too much. Of all the things he detested in life—and there was quite a list—personal contact was one of them. This situation with Miss Granger was entirely too intimate, too alien. Holding hands like a newlywed couple was just the first entry on a very long list of things he despised about this whole situation.

She smelled like honeysuckle. This was not a new observation, it had almost gotten them killed once before, when Fenrir had caught her scent through her Shield charm. It was some sort of perfume that lingered long past normal scents, and it bothered him, although not unduly.

Why was she so protective of him? So insistent to keep him alive?

It had been a very long time since someone cared whether he lived or died. He had almost forgotten what it felt like.

* * *

_**araeofsomething**: I think it just needs bits and pieces of UST scattered throughout to pull things together._

_**Me**: SEXUAL TENSION that's what I'm missing_

_pfft when do I ever write that_

_like hardly ever_

_(Oh, and we also have new cover art! hope you guys liked this chapter, stay tuned for snuggles and battles.) _**-nylex**

**edit:** _some of you may have noticed (I haven't gotten any reviews about it though) that FF.N is eating some of my words, or jamming others together. It bothers the hell out of me but hopefully it doesn't detract too much from the story._


	7. VII: Sand and Stones

**Proximity  
**[VII – Sand and Stones]

* * *

"_Would you like to know your future?  
If your answer is yes, think again. Not knowing is the greatest life motivator.  
So enjoy, endure, survive each moment as it comes to you in its proper sequence - a surprise."_

–The Perpetual Calander of Inspiration

* * *

"Short hair suits you," was his only comment.

Hermione groused and fussed with her reflection a bit more. A stranger looked back at her in the mirror, someone with large green eyes and closely cropped, graying blonde hair. She added freckles and a larger, more pronounced nose as an afterthought, and dimpled her cheeks. She'd always been envious of Ginny's perfect dimples. Her new reflection wasn't beautiful, not by any means. Glamour charms were something she'd never perfected, but it would do for the time being. Polyjuice Potion was out of the question, considering they'd need a great stock of it for the next few days and there simply wasn't time.

"All right," she said after a moment, turning around. "Let me do you."

"I'm perfectly capable of changing my own appearance, Miss Granger," he said rather waspishly, but she sat him down anyway and pulled out her wand. He glared at her, untrusting, and she rolled her eyes.

"I'm not going to give you warts or a third eye or anything, I'm not that childish," she told him firmly. Still wary, he closed his eyes and let her work.

It was odd. She _had_ been focusing on him more, considering she was shackled to him anyway, and it felt strange to change the features she knew so well. The hooked nose shrank and his upper lip grew, and she set to work on the unforgiving widow's peak and curtains of dark hair. Seeing his strong features vanish, bit by bit, was a little odd and sort of unsettling.

Thinking back, Snape's appearance had been the butt of many, many vicious jokes among the students. Ron and Harry in particular liked to make jabs at their dark professor whenever they got poor marks on a quiz. Never to his face, of course, since he was too frightening. Hermione released his hand and moved forward a little, pushing his hair back so she could get at the roots and shorten his hair. He stiffened at the soft touch.

"It's all right," she said, very quietly. His eyes opened and he gave her a sidelong look. Hermione tried to smile a little, feeling odd in her new skin and expressions. Kinder, somehow.

When was the last time someone had been kind to Snape? Certainly not recently. Not since the War. Possibly even further before that. Unconsciously her hand smoothed down the shoulder of his overcoat, then straightened his scarf.

She added a beard, and then Conjured a pair of glasses, pushing them onto his nose. "Can you see?" Hermione asked softly.

He was studying her, examining her new appearance. "Yes," he said after a moment, very quietly. "Yes, I can."

She had forgotten to change his eyes. Obsidian eyes, like flints, emotionless and blank—how carefully he had maintained his façade over the years. How cleanly he had played both sides. He looked different up close. Perhaps it was how close they physically were, perhaps it was the strain of being stuck together, but Hermione was beginning to recant her previous assumption; there _were_ worse people to be stuck with. Snape had a way of deliberation, every insult and snide remark seemed to cut especially deep because he _noticed _things. But he paid attention. How many times had she had conversations with people who simply nodded, smiled, and then nodded again? At least he paid attention. He had an odd way of looking at her like he was watching every breath, every movement, to assess for danger or perhaps just to make a snarky remark. But it was almost nice to be...observed, in that quiet way of his.

They were a bit too near. Hermione realized this a little belatedly and pulled backwards quickly, sitting back in her chair, a flush creeping up her neck. "Well," she said, clearing her throat briskly, trying to paper over the awkwardness, "I suppose we should get going, shouldn't we?"

Severus caught her hand in his, and then stood, his eyes impassive. They both glanced at themselves in the mirror one more time, looking at their new reflections.

They looked like a middle-aged couple, holding hands. Hermione could see just the slightest bit of resemblance in Severus's nose and mouth, a trace of his old sneer still lingering on his features. And if she looked very closely she could see that half-irritated, I-need-to-be-somewhere expression on her face. But with these new reflections, they could be anyone.

"So!" Hermione said, much too loudly, much too abruptly, "our itinerary is as follows. We get a Portkey to Hogsmeade, to get to the school grounds, and then go to the Forest. After that, we'll catch another Portkey, and then a short train ride to Cornwall to get some fresh sea foam and visit that apothecary you mentioned. Are you sure you want to use the unicorns in the Forbidden Forest?"

"Correct. The Hogwarts herd is remarkably docile compared to the rest of England." Snape said, tucking his scarf into his overcoat. Hermione frowned.

"Wasn't a boy nearly killed by a trampling unicorn? Fairly recently? What was his name, Bertie Mudsworth or something?"

"Muddersworth. And that's considered docile, for unicorns," Snape said wryly. "We should leave. McGonagall will be waiting for us at Hogsmeade, and we don't want to miss the Portkey."

"Will she know we're—"

"Disguised? Of course. Minerva is the very embodiment of discretion."

Before she had time to voice a protest, he grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her outside. His long legs carried him swiftly down the porch and Hermione had to double her speed to keep up with him. Glancing behind, she thought she saw the house shimmer slightly, as though the wards were coming into effect again. There was an ominous, foreboding twinge in her stomach when she thought about their mission, but she pushed it down. They would have to keep on guard, but they were two extremely experienced and talented wizards. They could handle a Death Eater or two.

They turned off of Spinner's End and down the street, towards the bustling, grimy city. They walked in silence, with Hermione struggling to look unhurried. Off to the left there was a little alleyway, and Snape took a sharp turn; lying on the muddy ground, half-in, half-out of a puddle, was an old sock. With a pang of emotions—fondness, nostalgia, alarm—Hermione recognized the lumpy knitted article of a Weasley make. She picked up the sodden sock somewhat unhappily.

"Did Ron arrange the Portkey?" she asked. There was a little lilt in her voice.

"Yes."

Dating Ron had simply not worked. At the end of the day, they were simply too good of friends—it was difficult to try and explain that to people. She knew him too well. There was no thrilling, exciting, wondering dates and questions and fun arguments. They had spent their fun moments during their friendship and there was nothing left in a romantic relationship, nothing but arguments and petty little spats. And once things ended it was sort of a relief, especially for Harry—inevitably he would be drawn in the middle of arguments, further complicated by his relationship to Ginny. It had been awkward, to say the least.

As though reading her mind (which come to think of, he might have been), Snape took hold of the soggy sock somewhat distastefully. "He must've though it would be amusing," he said dryly.

"Sounds rather like Ron," Hermione said fondly, almost wistfully.

He opened his mouth to say something, looking into her new green eyes. "Miss Granger—"

But before he could say anything, they both felt a jerk, like a hook attached to the small of their backs, and the sock dropped down to the alleyway.

* * *

They stumbled to a stop after the spinning died away, and Hermione gripped Snape's arm. Automatically he steadied her elbow and they continued off down the street. Overhead the sky was bright and overcast, a sort of glaringly bright winter day, with a crisp bite of snow in the air, and Hermione was grateful for her gloves and scarf.

McGonagall was standing on the street corner, wearing a square plaid cap buttoned under her chin, with sweeping woolen robes and a drawn expression on her face. She noticed the two of them arm and arm, and seemed to study Severus's face for a moment.

"It's a poisonous morning," she said tartly.

"Worse than a serpent," Snape replied quietly, something like a smile twitching at his mouth.

It must have been some kind of code, for Minerva smiled tightly at him. "It's good to see you again, Severus." She surveyed Hermione and gave her a brisk nod. "I see Flitwick did you well," she muttered, noting their Charmed appearances. "We should start towards the castle."

As they hurried up the road towards the castle, Hermione couldn't help but notice that McGonagall was slower than she used to be, and she seemed a little stooped. Had she always been that frail? There was a slight tremor in her left hand, as well, and Hermione's brow furrowed in concern. The Battle of Hogwarts had not been kind to anyone, but especially not to the older witches and wizards. Still, McGonagall tramped through the snow determinedly, clearing a path with her wand.

"You'll be glad to know," McGonagall said, her brogue thick as ever, "that Mr. Weasley and Mr. Potter have been hard at work scouring the library for a cure. At the moment they've discovered virtually nothing—they departed for Grimmauld Place last night."

"The potion is the only cure we've discovered so far," Hermione answered, using her wand to clear a path through the snow. "And there's quite a few…specifications."

"Be sure to keep the Order abreast of the situation," McGonagall reminded them sharply. "This isn't a very common curse. We're going to help in any way we can, and that includes protection for you, Severus."

Severus scoffed. "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, Minerva," he replied flatly.

Hermione jabbed him unceremoniously in the side. "The Order can help us, we're not doing this all on our own," she told him. "Professor McGonagall, would you mind dispensing a list of the ingredients we need among the Order members? The sooner we can gather all of these, the better."

He winced and glowered at her, but she hung on firmly to his elbow and ignored the deathly look.

"Of course," McGonagall answered crisply, "I'll spread the word immediately."

They had arrived at the looming gates of Hogwarts, and McGonagall flicked her wand. They swung open with a slow, agonizing creak and Hermione felt the hair on the back of her neck raise up. The wards surrounding the grounds were ancient and powerful—a millennia old, perhaps more. Nothing but layer upon layer of protective enchantments, defensive spells, and shielding hexes, and all of them walled the castle and kept it safe from outside forces. She had to grudgingly marvel at the sheer gall of the Death Eaters and Voldemort himself, to break into such a place. It would be like trying to knock over a tree with a feather.

Far away, spreading halfway around the school was the black smudge of the Forbidden Forest. Hagrid's Hut was a little stone dot, but the door was barred and no smoke was coming out of the chimney. Indeed, the whole place had a somewhat deserted, empty feel to it, and Hermione drew a little closer to Severus.

"Was it always this large?" she said quietly, looking around the vast expanse of snow. It had been a very long time since she'd felt small and insignificant.

He glanced down at her, an odd expression on his unfamiliar face. "Yes."

"Where are all the students?" Hermione queried. Even when classes were in session, there were usually students running around, playing on broomsticks, feeding biscuits to the Giant Squid, or generally getting into mischief.

"Once a month there's a defensive exercise," McGonagall answered. "Students are taught how to use shield charms and how to find the safest places in the castle."

More fear and uncertainty rippled up Hermione's back. "Like a fire drill?" she asked, her voice sounding a little too loud to her own ears.

"Yes. Exactly like a fire drill."

Hogwarts had always been the safest place. There had never been any need for drills or protection or anything else of the sort, because Hogwarts—the very castle itself—would keep them safe. The school was more than a place for learning, it was a refuge. The reconstruction had taken ages to accomplish, trying to keep the original integrity and rebuild the wards. Hermione had been indirectly involved with the politics after the Battle of Hogwarts; someone had to step up and organize things. And there had been an outcry for the further protection of the students, which she had thought was ridiculous.

But what if something like the Battle of Hogwarts happened again? Hogwarts was no longer impenetrable.

She squeezed Severus's hand tightly. "We should go," Hermione said. "The unicorns."

Severus stirred. "Of course." He looked down at her, his brow furrowed, seemingly just as unsettled at the change in the atmosphere of Hogwarts. Their fingers intertwined and Hermione felt a little bit safer.

They trudged off through the unbroken snow, heading away from the school. Hermione had spent the better part of seven years living, eating, sleeping and learning on these grounds—but now, it felt as though she'd never seen it properly before.

* * *

"Well," Hermione groused sometime later, "_This_ is certainly familiar."

They'd been going in circles. The Forbidden Forest was a wretched place; huge, monstrous, twisted trees circled them on every side, with slimy, slippery black moss hanging from the tree branches and covering the ground. Roots and rocks made the ground uneven and the rough path they followed looped and circled back on itself dozens of times. Here and there, deep gouges in the earth could be seen, along with an uprooted tree or overturned boulder. Grawp had clearly been busy. The idea of finding the giant in the forest was a chilling thought—hopefully, he would still remember her. Pressed into the mud and ice on the ground were paw prints, much too large to be a common dog's, and intermingled with those were sharp crescent moon shapes, which had been cut into the snow by hooves.

"You know for a Forbidden Forest this wasn't very off limits," Hermione said after a moment, as Severus helped her down from a log.

"Only because Potter and your gang of cohorts simply made it another part of the school grounds," Severus snapped. "Before you, the only ones the staff needed to concern themselves with were those blasted Weasley twins."

"That was mostly Ron and Harry," Hermione pointed out, slipping her hand back into Severus's, "I didn't come in here until my…what was it, my third year? To hide Buckbeak. But that was only on the very, _very_ outskirts. And then my fifth year, of course. With Hagrid. And then with _that_ _woman_."

There was an unmitigated amount of distaste in her last sentence, and she could have sworn she saw Severus's mouth twitch. The fact that Umbridge, despite all of her sickening actions towards the Wizarding community, with Muggle borns and other species in particular, was still escaping prosecution—that was something that made her blood boil. Hermione picked up the pace, thinking of the trial she had in a few short days. Once Macnair and Malfoy were behind bars in Azkaban, she could go deeper internally. Not just the Death Eaters who were in the public eye, but the ones behind the scenes. People like Umbridge and Yaxley and a dozen others who hadn't picked up a wand, but had signed off on horrendously discriminating laws and ordinances. If there could be no criminal charges levied against them, she would make damn well sure that they were sent to rot at some tiny desk, powerless, and stuffed in the most freezing, rainy part of England possible. And then left there.

"Enough marching," Severus said, jerking her arm. "We're getting close. Quiet."

Hermione had been so preoccupied with her inner thoughts that she hadn't noticed the increasing amount of hoof prints on the ground. Severus was examining them carefully, his wand out, and the tip glowing brightly.

"Unicorns or centaurs?" Hermione whispered, looking at the hoof prints. She couldn't tell the difference.

"Almost certainly unicorns," Severus murmured. "Look for white hair on bushes or trees. It needs to be as fresh as possible."

She scanned the scrubby, low growing bushes which tangled around the bases of trees, looking for the sparkling, brilliant strands of unicorn hair. When fresh they practically glowed, but they staled very quickly, which was partly why they were so expensive. A twig snapped and she jumped, squeaking a little in alarm.

There was an arrow an inch from her nose.

"You are most unwelcome in these woods," a deep voice rumbled.

It was a centaur.

Hermione understood, in a flash of the moment, the sheer terror that must have gone through Umbridge when she was dragged off by the herd. The centaur was enormous—tall, with blunt features and long, plaited hair and narrow black eyes. His powerful chest and haunches were covered with rich, coal-black fur and his fetlocks were tangled with grass and leaves. The arrowhead which was so close to her looked lethally sharp, and she could see the sharp, shadowed line of muscle in his shoulder and back where he pulled the bow taut. There were several fresh pink scars along his haunches which hadn't yet begun to silver.

However she did recognize him, and there was a shameful twinge in her belly when she did so—it was Bane, one of the centaurs who had dragged Umbridge off.

"Bane," Hermione breathed. "I, oh, goodness—I apologize for this intrusion. We mean no infringement upon your territory."

The thick tail twitched as though swatting a fly, although the arrow didn't quiver. "Regardless of intention you stand insolently before me, painting yourself in absurd layers of illusions."

"The illusions were necessary for our survival," Severus said quietly, not breaking eye contact with the centaur. "We seek merely an ingredient, a single unicorn hair. Once we obtain this we will be on our way."

Bane opened his mouth to say something, pulling the string back further, but a loud voice broke through the trees. "Bane!"

A slender centaur with a palomino coat and white blonde, curly hair stepped through the trees. By both human and centaurian standards he was astonishingly beautiful, with an almost feminine cut to his jaw; there was many deep scars which looked like gashes along his flanks. Hermione recognized him almost immediately as Firenze, and the centaur had a reproachful look on his face. "Bane, be ashamed, can you not see through illusions? This is Severus Snape and Hermione Granger, heroes of the Wizarding war. Lower your bow and be at peace with them."

Bane lowered his bow reluctantly, scowling at the pair. Firenze stepped forward and bowed. "The stars foretold of a visitor's arrival," he said solemnly, his striking blue eyes half closed. "A pair afflicted with a strange, unbreakable curse. I did not think it would be you."

"It _is_ breakable," Hermione said quickly. "That's why we're here. We needed unicorn hair for the potion we need to brew."

"A potion, to break a curse?" Firenze asked mournfully. "Nay. Your efforts are in vain, the curse will never be broken, simply lessened."

A cold, clammy feeling was stealing over Hermione. "No," she said automatically, squeezing Severus's hand tighter, "no, we'll be able to break it. I…we have to. There's no other option."

Firenze shook his head. "Tangled souls, no matter how damaged, cannot be unraveled. The stars spoke of this and it became law when the world was sang into being, when the first two souls became one. Look into your heart, Hermione Granger, do you doubt my words? Fate makes no mistake—the only error is in our interpretation."

Severus seemingly had had enough. "I know the extent of a human soul," he snarled, "I know it can be ripped in two, destroyed, obliterated, and diminished. I know _exactly_ how damaged a soul can become before the human body begins to deteriorate. If a soul can be torn in two, it can be merged, and if combined it can be taken apart again."

The centaur blinked slowly and then smiled. "Think of a jar," he said patiently, with the air of someone explaining something to a child, "filled with both rocks and sand. They merge together, filling the gaps between the rocks and creating something solid. Extract the rocks, or remove the sand, and you shall be left with two separate entities—empty sand, and unstable stones. Be well." Firenze waved his hand in dismissive gesture and a smile upon his lips.

With that, the two centaurs disappeared into the bushes, tails swishing. Hermione hadn't stopped squeezing his hand—the idea that the curse _couldn't_ be broken was thundering through her mind. What would she do? They would have to live together, sleep together, eat together, for the rest of their lives. This thought slammed around in her mind for a minute or two, images flickering past like pages in a book. What would happen?

Being in Severus's proximity was not a pleasant experience. He was not a pleasant man. But she felt something, something she hadn't felt in a very long time, muffled as she was beneath the bureaucracy of the Ministry: Feeling alive. Useful. It was like reaching the top of a hill and slowly beginning to descend, after struggling for so long, it was like being able to breathe. They had both sacrificed so much, their lives had been turned upside down and then shaken vigorously. But they could make it through this, of course they could. They could do it together.

Slowly, she relaxed.

"We should get the unicorn hair," she said gently. "Don't think about what they said, centaurs don't make a lot of sense anyway."

He wasn't paying the slightest bit of mind to her. Hermione reached up and tucked his scarf more firmly around his scarred neck. Suddenly she had his full attention, those black eyes glaring straight down at her. Hermione shrank back, resting a hand on his chest. "We'll fix this," she assured him. "We'll make the potion. I'll…I'll pass off the case to my adjunct, if I have to. She's more than sufficient, the evidence is all there. We're going to wait for the full moon, and brew it properly, and then…then we'll be done."

"A month," he said hollowly, almost jeering but without the strength, "with you."

It stung.

"It could be worse."

And he laughed, full of bitterness. There was something wild and nearly desperate in his eyes when he looked at her, as though he wanted to spring forward to crush her to him.

"No, Miss Granger, it could not possibly be worse."

* * *

_Is it just me, or are these chapters getting longer? I think they're getting longer. we nearly had a makeout session in this one. you would not believeeee how hard it is to NOT have them jump each other's bones. _

_Special snowflake sparkles to __**araeofsunshine,**__ my fabulous beta, as usual -nylex_


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